


Hands

by bearwithme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearwithme/pseuds/bearwithme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things that Rose Lalonde thinks are a little strange, a slightly different, and possibly quite interesting about Karkat Vantas. One of these things is his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

His hands are vicious, merciless, and fierce. They rip and shred and tear, and the entire curtain is in pieces.

Only a tiny scrap of fabric still hangs on the ancient brown ring above.

It was a big, heavy curtain, a nice old one, too. But you never liked the pasty green color or the vintage floral pattern, so maybe this does not have to be a bad thing.

That is what you think as you watch the destruction take place.

His long, slender, gripping fingers are all you see.

When he finally seems through, you see that he is angry for being so impulsive, furious even, and that sends him into more of a rage. He claws blindly at the debris on the ground and finds himself grabbing opposite ends of one of the larger pieces of what is left of the curtain. His face contorts into expressions that you believe should not be possible for fear it may serve as an entryway into your world for the demons of the deep.

You hear the cloth scream as he wrenches it into two small fragments.

Then, you hear him scream in a way that is very similar to the cloth’s scream. But it is much louder, so you cover your ears, close your eyes, and turn around because you are sure he is holding back because you are watching. You make a show of it. You wait for the madness to end.

How much time it takes until the following event happens, you do not know. The next thing your remaining senses pick up on is the closeness of that enveloping earthy smell and a tired hand on your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you think you hear him growl, though you suppose that maybe he did not mean to.

 

He practically throws his hands in, and they are meticulous, decisive, and intense.

_Pluck, pluck, plop._

The jaws snap shut.

_Click, click, clack._

The wires pull into place.

_Thump, thump, thud._

And the two pieces shut into one whole device.

You watch those deft hands thrust into the deep void taking up the center of the device. Their movements radiate with a deliberateness that can only be achieved through such immense self-control.

But you still feel you have good reason to fear that his huge claws might damage something inside anyway.

You cringe every time he moves too close to the wall of the device, and you flinch whenever he shifts his body into a more comfortable position, but, no, no, it’ll be okay, he knows what he is doing. You should know that he had to have done it many times over before.

He is helpful.

His hands dive in and forcefully push outwards, as though he is swimming through oceans of silly putty with just his hands, stroking powerfully inside the large opening of the device. He pulls and grabs and yanks and occasionally smacks at the strange things whirring and buzzing inside until everything is in its proper place.

Satisfied, he unhunches himself from his work and rubs his very useful hands together in barely concealed delight.

You figure that he thinks he is being discreet about it. 

“There ya go,” he finally growls, though you think he did not mean to.

 

He is agitated and antsy, waiting on edge for something that may never come. His fingers dance lightly on the table, leaping and sprinting through the vast lands of wood and paint.

You see them swat at a nuisance that only they feel and drum on a surface that only reverberates dully in response.

What starts as a thoughtless idiosyncrasy to kill time soon turns into an acrobatic performance for the masses. Come one, come all, to see the amazing flying hands. They spin and twirl and flip and pound and smack on the table, at the table, even way above the table!

Eventually he is simply palming the table with both hands very quickly. You think it is an outlet for all the bad stuff bubbling inside of him.

You think he looks pretty silly when he is practically on his feet for the only purpose of gaining more force to put into this task.

You try to stifle a laugh and fail, but he does not see. It is good that the focus he puts into striking the table keeps him from noticing anything. There are people starting to stare at the lunatic spanking a table that has done no wrong.

That is when you see the faintly nervous employee approach. Strange, they do not usually serve tables.

“Here you go, sir,” the employee mumbles, slightly distraught from watching the violent man, and he hands over a tray with the Big Mac, the large fries, and a medium drink hurriedly filled with some soda that has sloshed over the edge from the rush. “Hope you enjoy.”

You see him take the tray slowly and shakily, clearly trying to calm the convulsions that have not yet simmered away from his performance.

“Thanks,” he growls, and despite the display, you are pretty damn sure he doesn’t mean to.

 

He wants to be gentle, wants to be tender, wants to be loving.

He wants his hands to do these things, wants it very, very badly.

You’ve seen his frenzied outbursts, his masterful control, his idle quirks, and his thoughtless aggression. But now as his hands skim awkwardly along the covers over the lumps of the sick, sleeping body, all you can see is the incredible frustration emanating from him.

It is chilly and white outside the bedroom window.

His hands twitch and twist and shake. His joints are jutting out where they should be held close, his ligaments are tensed where they should be unwound, and his tendons are flatly motionless where they should be tightly set.

The prime steed’s gallop grows clumsy and ungainly. The smooth car jerks along reluctantly across both the smallest bumps and the largest mountains alike.

It is hard to believe these are the same hands you have gotten to know. You want to reach and help, guide those trembling hands back into confidence, but you remember their previous poise and form. You know that even one hand alone is no fool.

Against all instinct, you decide to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And then you are sure you see the smallest change in the way those hands move.

It is not when he sheathes his claws.

It is not when he shoos away the graying dust bunnies away from the foot of the bed.

It is not when he flicks the baby spider climbing down from a narrow string of web away.

It is when he bends over into an unusually comforting position. It is when he allows, you believe, those simple feelings to rise to the surface. They carry through his generally very utilitarian hands, and they relax, and he relaxes.

You are sure his movement is no longer dictated by the vicious throes of necessity and need, but by the flowing cadence of love and care.

You cannot help but smile. Because as you watch him cradle the body that is desperately defending itself against the virus from inside, you are sure their breathing gently falls in time together.

When you are sure he has forgotten you, you turn to exit the room, but he turns his head for just a moment to flash you a quick, grateful smile that fills you with a cozy feeling. It is like gulping down a warm cup of hot chocolate as you watch the ice-cold snowfall outside that you know will have to melt in the end.  

She will wake up and see him, and he will stroke her hair with those big, careful hands, and she will fall back asleep to the warmth of his flesh.

You think to yourself that it is a very cute scene and leave the two to be.

“Thanks,” he growls, almost imperceptibly, as you go out the door, but you are absolutely sure he does not mean to. 


End file.
